The Price She Paid [126]
``suited to your talents.'' As he observed Mildred, he was still sighing and shaking his head over the departed candidate.
``Ugly and ignorant!'' he groaned. ``Poor creature! Poor, poor creature. She makes three dollars a week--in a factory owned by a great philanthropist. Three dollars a week. And she has no way to make a cent more. Miss Gower, they talk about the sad, naughty girls who sell themselves in the street to piece out their wages. But think, dear young lady, how infinitely better of they are than the ugly ones who can't piece out their wages.''
There he looked directly at her for the first time. Before she could grasp the tragic sadness of his idea, he, with the mobility of candid and highly sensitized natures, shifted from melancholy to gay, for in looking at her he had caught only the charm of dress, of face, of arrangement of hair. ``What a pleasure!'' he exclaimed, bursting into smiles and seizing and kissing her gloved hands. ``Voice like a bird, face like an angel --only not TOO good, no, not TOO good. But it is so rare--to look as one sings, to sing as one looks.''
For once, compliment, sincere compliment from one whose opinion was worth while, gave Mildred pain. She burst out with her news: ``Signor Moldini, I've lost my place in the company. My voice has gone back on me.''
Usually Moldini abounded in the consideration of fine natures that have suffered deeply from lack of consideration. But he was so astounded that he could only stare stupidly at her, smoothing his long greasy hair with his thin brown hand.
``It's all my fault; I don't take care of myself,'' she went on. ``I don't take care of my health. At least, I hope that's it.''
``Hope!'' he said, suddenly angry.
``Hope so, because if it isn't that, then I've no chance for a career,'' explained she.
He looked at her feet, pointed an uncannily long forefinger at them. ``The crossings and sidewalks are slush--and you, a singer, without overshoes! Lunacy! Lunacy!''
``I've never worn overshoes?'' said Mildred apologetically.
``Don't tell me! I wish not to hear. It makes me --like madness here.'' He struck his low sloping brow with his palm. ``What vanity! That the feet may look well to the passing stranger, no overshoes! Rheumatism, sore throat, colds, pneumonia. Is it not disgusting. If you were a man I should swear in all the languages I know--which are five, including Hungarian, and when one swears in Hungarian it is `going some,' as you say in America. Yes, it is going quite some.''
``I shall wear overshoes,'' said Mildred.
``And indigestion--you have that?''
``A little, I guess.''
``Much--much, I tell you!'' cried Moldini, shaking the long finger at her. ``You Americans! You eat too fast and you eat too much. That is why you are always sick, and consulting the doctors who give the medicines that make worse, not better. Yes, you Americans are like children. You know nothing. Sing? Americans cannot sing until they learn that a stomach isn't a waste-basket, to toss everything into. You have been to that throat specialist, Hicks?''
``Ah, yes,'' said Mildred brightening. ``He said there was nothing organically wrong.''
``He is an ass, and a criminal. He ruins throats. He likes to cut, and he likes to spray. He sprays those poisons that relieve colds and paralyze the throat and cords. Americans sing? It is to laugh! They have too many doctors; they take too many pills. Do you know what your national emblem should be? A dollar- sign--yes. But that for all nations. No, a pill--a pill, I tell you. You take pills?''
``Now and then,'' said Mildred, laughing. ``I admit I have several kinds always on hand.''
``You see!'' cried he triumphantly. ``No, it is not mere art that America needs, but more sense about eating--and to keep away from the doctors. People full of pills, they cannot make poems and pictures, and write operas and sing them. Throw away those pills, dear young lady, I implore you.''
``Signor Moldini, I've come to ask you to help me.''
Instantly
``Ugly and ignorant!'' he groaned. ``Poor creature! Poor, poor creature. She makes three dollars a week--in a factory owned by a great philanthropist. Three dollars a week. And she has no way to make a cent more. Miss Gower, they talk about the sad, naughty girls who sell themselves in the street to piece out their wages. But think, dear young lady, how infinitely better of they are than the ugly ones who can't piece out their wages.''
There he looked directly at her for the first time. Before she could grasp the tragic sadness of his idea, he, with the mobility of candid and highly sensitized natures, shifted from melancholy to gay, for in looking at her he had caught only the charm of dress, of face, of arrangement of hair. ``What a pleasure!'' he exclaimed, bursting into smiles and seizing and kissing her gloved hands. ``Voice like a bird, face like an angel --only not TOO good, no, not TOO good. But it is so rare--to look as one sings, to sing as one looks.''
For once, compliment, sincere compliment from one whose opinion was worth while, gave Mildred pain. She burst out with her news: ``Signor Moldini, I've lost my place in the company. My voice has gone back on me.''
Usually Moldini abounded in the consideration of fine natures that have suffered deeply from lack of consideration. But he was so astounded that he could only stare stupidly at her, smoothing his long greasy hair with his thin brown hand.
``It's all my fault; I don't take care of myself,'' she went on. ``I don't take care of my health. At least, I hope that's it.''
``Hope!'' he said, suddenly angry.
``Hope so, because if it isn't that, then I've no chance for a career,'' explained she.
He looked at her feet, pointed an uncannily long forefinger at them. ``The crossings and sidewalks are slush--and you, a singer, without overshoes! Lunacy! Lunacy!''
``I've never worn overshoes?'' said Mildred apologetically.
``Don't tell me! I wish not to hear. It makes me --like madness here.'' He struck his low sloping brow with his palm. ``What vanity! That the feet may look well to the passing stranger, no overshoes! Rheumatism, sore throat, colds, pneumonia. Is it not disgusting. If you were a man I should swear in all the languages I know--which are five, including Hungarian, and when one swears in Hungarian it is `going some,' as you say in America. Yes, it is going quite some.''
``I shall wear overshoes,'' said Mildred.
``And indigestion--you have that?''
``A little, I guess.''
``Much--much, I tell you!'' cried Moldini, shaking the long finger at her. ``You Americans! You eat too fast and you eat too much. That is why you are always sick, and consulting the doctors who give the medicines that make worse, not better. Yes, you Americans are like children. You know nothing. Sing? Americans cannot sing until they learn that a stomach isn't a waste-basket, to toss everything into. You have been to that throat specialist, Hicks?''
``Ah, yes,'' said Mildred brightening. ``He said there was nothing organically wrong.''
``He is an ass, and a criminal. He ruins throats. He likes to cut, and he likes to spray. He sprays those poisons that relieve colds and paralyze the throat and cords. Americans sing? It is to laugh! They have too many doctors; they take too many pills. Do you know what your national emblem should be? A dollar- sign--yes. But that for all nations. No, a pill--a pill, I tell you. You take pills?''
``Now and then,'' said Mildred, laughing. ``I admit I have several kinds always on hand.''
``You see!'' cried he triumphantly. ``No, it is not mere art that America needs, but more sense about eating--and to keep away from the doctors. People full of pills, they cannot make poems and pictures, and write operas and sing them. Throw away those pills, dear young lady, I implore you.''
``Signor Moldini, I've come to ask you to help me.''
Instantly